The Exhale
by Jentle55
Summary: Roxanne reflects on some of her favourite things, especially time with a certain ex-villain.


**Notes:** Oh God. Why am I doing this. What is this... I don't even... This is what happens when Jentle stays up really late at night. Thanks Insomnia, for turning me to the dark side. It's technically the first smutty sort of fic I've ever posted to the internet. Be kind. It's more fluffy than smutty though, I guess. It's Smuffy. Wrote it many months ago, and just realized it never made it up here, so there you go.

**Warnings:** Well, it's rated M for a reason. SEXY TIMES! The most unimaginative sex evers. Really. Maybe, sort of, kind of, totally taken from my own sex life. Don't tell my husband OMG.

**Disclaimer:** 'Megamind' and all its characters are owned by _Dreamworks. _I own nothing.

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><p>There were a lot of things in life that Roxanne Ritchi enjoyed.<p>

A hot cup of Spiced Chai tea, for one, with just a hint of lemon and a drizzle of honey for sweetness.

She enjoyed the sight and feel of freshly manicured nails. She liked the slow squeezing motions of a Swedish massage even better, and when the two were combined in one afternoon of indulgence? She could purr like a kitten.

She enjoyed a good movie, particularly those with Jason Statham in it. Except for that Cranked series. She didn't recognize that as part of her Jason's filmography.

She liked bike rides in the park, lunch outdoors, sleeping in late, and staying up even later. She liked Spanish guitar, obscure indie bands, and even more shameful mainstream pop that she listened to alone in her car.

She liked warm spots of sun on cold winter days.

She liked the smell of fresh cut grass.

She liked sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everywhere.

And she also liked the view above her lover, staring down at him transfixed while she rolled her hips to incite gasp after gasp from his lips.

Oh yes, she liked that perhaps most of all.

It wasn't the whole act she liked, per se. She had a specific motion that she liked best.

Not to imply that she didn't enjoy clashing against him, mouth on mouth, hands groping and striving to tear away cotton and leather and spandex and whatever spiked, cloaked, and zippered contraption he was wearing that day. No, she loved all of that too.

The clawing, writhing, panting mess they would form as they tumbled down the hall, his tongue dragging up the side of her neck always made chills run up her spine. She'd tilt her head back, begging for more which he'd happily oblige, purring against her throat with fiendish delight.

His urgency always set her aflame, because he hardly ever waited until they were fully unclothed to start his ministrations. It was as if he couldn't contain his need, hands greedy and demanding, tearing and yanking at fabric just long enough to pull one cup down from her breast, instantly licking, biting and suckling at her. His other hand was already down the back of her waistband, groping and cupping her firmly to bring her flush up against his lithe frame.

She'd try to break the contact to properly undress, but it was like trying to stop waves on a beach. She'd get a modicum of distance in order to undo her bra, but he was behind her in a flash, arm encircling her waist to bring her back against him hard. He'd grind and rub suggestively, hands searching upward to find her chest while his lips were on her ear.

She loved that about him. He seemed insatiable.

She also loved how once they were naked, once he had laid her bare against the sheets, he'd lose all his urgency and would turn the passion down to a low simmer. Taking his sweet torturous time with building her up.

Roxanne liked it all. Every lick, nip, and soothing caress of his tongue across her body, making her arch up into his touch hungrily. And he'd pull away, making her wait, chiding her to be patient. She was always torn between wanting to throttle him for his cocky self-satisfied smile, or just feeling even more aroused by the flare of wickedness in his bright green eyes.

It was a game she was happy to play. She'd let him have his fun, thinking he was in control. Thinking that she was his little play thing, squirming and moaning when his mouth descended on her chest. Let him think that if he ran his hand slowly up her thigh, that he could own her entirely with just the barest of touches.

And she played the part well, gasping and bucking her hips when his knuckles outlined the top of her pelvis. Not that it was hard to act. She whimpered his name, fingers groping the back of his head, down his slim shoulders, pulling his mouth hotly against hers. Urging him to move his hand further, fingers brushing through the soft curls and further still. Toward the heat emanating from her. Pulsing with every heartbeat.

He'd pull back from their battle of tongues, biting at her lower lip before that smile of his would blossom across his face, eyes locked on hers as one long finger found her wet core, probing gently, slowly. Teasing.

The first entrance was always deliriously good, when finally, after circling and circling, dancing over the sensitive nub hidden amongst her folds, that finger would slip inside and she could groan with delight. And he'd smile even wider, clearly pleased with himself.

He only grew more confident with every slow stroke, drawing fingers up slowly to tease her before pushing them home again swiftly, causing her to grab fistfuls of the sheets beneath her. And when he applied a slow sucking pressure to the tip of one breast? She really didn't have to act as if she enjoyed it, because a whimper of pleasure was pulled from her throat.

Oh yes, she liked this.

But what she really liked was what came next. Because despite how he could bring her higher with slow strokes of his tongue and hands, how she craved more and more and more of his touch, she was still eager to get to her favourite part.

She just had to wait for that moment. When she'd lulled him into feeling that he had her wrapped around his little finger, she would remind him just who was in charge.

A forceful kiss, a stabbing of her tongue against his, and a flip of position would leave him bewildered, eyes wide and shocked as a moment of panic flashed through his brain. He'd struggle for a time, trying to lean forward, to take command, until she'd press him flat against his back, rubbing herself against him as she'd slide to straddle his growing excitement.

He'd cease resisting, those eyes turning lustful and knowing. He liked this position, perhaps as much as she did, and his hands would start wandering again. Riding his hand along her hips, up her sides, fondling her chest eagerly, he was back to smiling, excited, waiting.

But she had a score to settle. An eye for an eye, a tease for a tease.

She'd grind and writhe against him, kissing him passionately with hands to either side of his head. Rocking her hips against his member that quivered with barely contained need, so close to ecstasy. She would shift just enough to capture him between her thighs, riding her hips forward so her wet heat would slide against him, taunting him with the possibilities that one thrust could promise. And he'd always trust that she'd let him in, holding his breath before letting it out in a throaty groan when the sweep was done and contact was lost, never reaching the sweet goal.

Again and again, she'd grind against him, deflecting his every attempt to buck his hips up, barely giving him a taste where his head would just find that tight circle. His eyes would cross and roll back in pleasure, but she'd move again so he'd moan in frustration, his length sliding free and away from the squeezing wet core.

And then, she'd take him right to that point, poised over the edge, touching and feeling the throbbing moisture between her legs and finally, finally, let him sink fully into her so a loud, low sound of gratitude was wrested from his throat.

And that was the moment she loved the best. Not the gasp that came with every squeeze, thrust, or grind. Not the way his eyes would flutter closed with carnal lust every time she shifted, growing a rhythm atop him. Not the way he'd squeeze her wide hips and urge her harder down atop him.

No, it was AFTER the gasp.

It was the exhale, accompanied by that soft noise. It was when his eyes opened again, still foggy with pleasure, gleaming with hunger for one more push. It was that puff of breath in preparation for the next gasp, for the next high, for the next moment where they moved together toward release. It was the look that told her he was in heaven, and promised wicked retribution if she ever stopped long enough for him to catch his breath.

She still loved all the rest. She still loved the frantic way their pace would spiral out of control, going faster and faster, harder and harder. She still loved hearing her voice mingle with his, panting and gasping and groaning together to the beat of the bed posts against the wall. She still loved the way he'd arch his back and thrust into her hard as his release came, her name on his lips, fingers digging into her hips. And she especially loved the convulsing, throbbing sensation of his climax buried deep within her, sending chills up her spine and making her laugh shakily.

But the part she loved best? Above all else? Was the exhale. After the gasping end, when he'd breathe out in a steady pant, eyes clouded and drowsy, smile slow and luxurious. When he'd reach up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear and hum in his throat appreciatively with a sigh.

Yes, she loved that part best.


End file.
